The Case of the Toddler Snack Heist

My son is all about solving problems. If he wants something off the counters, he doesn’t wait around for help, he engineers a solution. His favorite tool of choice? The ottoman from the rocking chair, which he proudly pushes across the house like a tiny forklift operator with a mission. You’d think he’s training for a toddler version of American Ninja Warrior: Kitchen Edition.

And here’s the kicker: he always looks ridiculously proud of himself when he pulls it off. Even when he gets caught mid-heist, hanging off the edge of the counter like a mischievous raccoon, he beams with the kind of smile that says, “Yeah, I did that.”

Lately, he’s been improvising with whatever he can find, packs of bottled water, chairs, even his dad’s lunch cooler. Honestly, we’re not super strict about food, so it cracks me up that he’s burning so many calories climbing for snacks when he could just, you know, ask. But no, apparently snacks taste better when you’ve risked your life to get them.

Take, for example, the time he strolled into the living room with a cherry tomato. At first, I assumed it was one he had stashed earlier from lunch (because he’s a grazer, and leftover food is sometimes hidden in little “snack stashes” around the house until the dogs beat him to it). But then he brought me another. And another. I thought I was losing my mind, I know how many tomatoes I served. So I followed him.

Sure enough, there he was, climbing from the water bottle packs onto the kitchen island to snag the fresh-picked tomatoes from the counter. The look he gave me? Pure toddler mischief with a side of “don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

But here’s where the teachable moment comes in. As funny as it is, what I see in his behavior is problem-solving, persistence, and confidence. He’s not just climbing for snacks, he’s practicing critical thinking and resilience (even if the prize is just cherry tomatoes). Of course, I’d prefer he practice those skills in ways that don’t involve potentially breaking bones or raiding the fridge, but hey, parenting is about guiding the chaos, not eliminating it.

Speaking of the fridge…

Recently, he’s hit a growth spurt and can now reach the pantry and fridge handles. At first, this was cute. He’d bring me snacks to open, usually healthy ones, and I’d oblige. But the treats in the pantry? Let’s just say I wasn’t looking to referee a meltdown every five minutes, so we eventually put child locks in place.

But last night… oh, last night.

It was bedtime. The girls were already asleep, my husband was outside tinkering with his truck, and I was hanging out with my little night owl. Bedtime in our house isn’t a one-size-fits-all routine; it’s whatever he needs that night. Sometimes it’s climbing on me like I’m a jungle gym, sometimes it’s toy trains in bed. I thought he was off to grab a toy. Instead, he returned proudly with the apple juice bottle.

Okay, cool. You’re thirsty. We can handle this. I poured him a drink, and back to bed we went.

Five minutes later, off he goes again. This time? Bologna. I kid you not. He walked in with the open package of bologna like he was a medieval king bringing tribute. Fine, bedtime snack. I gave him a slice and thought that was that.

Nope.

A few bites later, he handed the bologna off to the dog and went on another mission. That’s when I heard it, a sound every parent dreads. Glass shattering. His little voice rang out in despair: “NOOOO!”

I turned the corner and found a peach apocalypse. A nearly full jar of Mimi’s home-canned peaches lay in ruins, shards everywhere. And here’s the thing: in my son’s world, this was the apocalypse. Losing peaches is the toddler equivalent of losing Wi-Fi.

Cue the chaos. I was yelling for my husband, who was conveniently out test-driving his truck repair. The dog was lunging in to lick up peach juice like it was a five-star meal, while I was pulling him back so he wouldn’t eat glass. Meanwhile, my son was frantically trying to “save” the peaches from the floor.

Parenting tip: in these moments, you learn to triage. Step one, dogs outside, while dragging the toddler behind me so he wouldn’t step in glass. Step two, pears for the toddler as a distraction. Step three, clean up the sticky disaster while praying you don’t slice open your hand.

Eventually, the floor was clean, the dogs were safe to come back inside, and my son was content with pears. By the time my husband came back inside, he looked at the scene like he had missed the finale of a show he’d been watching all season.

Needless to say: we invested in a fridge lock right away.